


Call You Mine

by ORiley42



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mr. & Mrs. Smith Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Meetings, M/M, Making Up, helicopters and romance!, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25824172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ORiley42/pseuds/ORiley42
Summary: Ethan/Benji meetcute with a Mr. & Mrs. Smith-style twist!
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43
Collections: Benthan Week 2020





	Call You Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Benthan Week Day 1! Alternate theme: Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU.  
> Fic title from the eponymous song by The Chainsmokers—highly recommend giving it a listen!

_Morocco_

“Gin and tonic,” Benji told the bartender, settling himself on a stool in the humid open-air lounge. What he really wanted to tell the bartender was ‘life is seriously unfair’ or perhaps ‘please hold me while I cry,’ but neither of those options were open to him now that he was a Real Secret Agent.

Or, rather, a Real Secret Agent(‘s tech guy) who was supposed to be safely ensconced in their cozy hotel room monitoring surveillance while the Genuine Secret Agent did spy shenanigans. Unfortunately, those spy shenanigans had seen Benji’s partner’s brains splattered all over the local drug kingpin’s walls. Benji fervently wished for his own brains to continue their residence inside his skull. _He wasn’t trained for this._

Benji took the drink he’d ordered and sipped it with distaste. He did not particularly care for gin (he didn’t understand why anyone wanted to drink the liquid equivalent of a Christmas tree) but it was the first thing that came to mind, and his only thought right now was ‘look confident and like you belong and not like you’re a misfit loner who’s definitely the accomplice they’re searching the grounds for.’

“Whiskey, please,” announced a voice off to Benji’s right. The newcomer slid onto the seat immediately next to Benji’s, despite the extensive row of unoccupied stools beside them.

The guy was…wow, now that was a _man_. Truly, a specimen. If Benji wasn’t busy trying not to die, he’d go and get his flirt on. Well, not really, he’d probably just sit here and give him secretive googly eyes until the whole thing became too embarrassing to contemplate and he fled the scene. But. Anyway. Nice to dream.

Back to trying-not-to-die! Benji’s brain was furiously working on a plan to achieve this goal but was coming up with a great squeaking nothing.

“Hi, I’m Ethan,” the stranger said. Benji assumed for a moment that this Ethan fellow must be introducing himself to the bartender, because surely, he wasn’t introducing himself to Benji. But that was, in fact, what he was doing.

“Oh! Hi,” Benji replied several seconds after the I’m-a-normal-person-who-talks-to-other-humans mark had passed them by. “It’s, er, nice to meet you.” He stuck out a hand to shake and almost knocked over his drink.

“Nice to meet you too.” Ethan’s smile was the soft glow of embers. “And whose company do I have the pleasure of sharing?”

“Right! Sorry,” Benji mimed smacking himself in the face and ended up just actually smacking himself in the face. God, he shouldn’t be allowed out among people. “I’m Benji.”

“Benji,” Ethan repeated, eyes as warm as the whiskey he swirled thoughtlessly in his strong, tanned hands, “That’s a cute name.”

“Yeah,” Benji’s shoulders slumped a bit, “Perhaps even ‘cutsey’ if we’re being uncharitable.”

“Something I try never to be,” Ethan parried.

Benji laughed, more of a bark, really, but Ethan didn’t seem fazed. “It, uh, it’s what they called me in first grade. Probably should have stayed in primary school, but it stalked me all the way to now.”

Ethan laughed too, the sound rich and enticing. Benji really wished he could engage properly in this miraculous bit of out-of-his-leaguing but he had other things to worry about—

Oh, but I’m an _idiot_ , Benji realized in a lightning-strike of inspiration. He broke into a smile. Cover! If he could not screw up this one single interpersonal interaction, he would be home free. _They were looking for a loner_.

“Well, I like it,” Ethan declared.

“Huh?” Benji startled. Off to a raring start, aren’t we, he griped internally.

“The name,” Ethan clarified, “your name. It suits you.”

“Hmm,” was Benji’s Pulitzer-winning reply.

Something shifted in Ethan’s features and Benji desperately tried to think of something witty and enchanting to say. Ugh, this whole flirt-your-way-to-cover plan was folding almost as quickly as he’d put it together.

More painful seconds ticked by, and all Benji could think of to say was, ‘how ‘bout them Rangers?’, which would be a terrible conversation starter for many reasons, not the least of which was that he didn’t even know which type of sport the Rangers played. Basketball? Baseball? There was definitely a ball involved.

“I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,” Ethan finally broke the silence, to their mutual relief. “I don’t normally hit on complete strangers, but I guess I hoped that…”

“Hit…on…?” Benji echoed, baffled. “You…oh.”

“Maybe I should leave…” Ethan tensed as if to stand and Benji panicked, grabbing Ethan’s hand before he could do so.

Oh god. Ethan was frozen. Was that too much? Had Benji just ruined it?

Ethan relaxed, weight pressing back down and hand turning over to interlock Benji’s fingers with his own.

Well. Apparently not ruined.

Benji couldn’t tell if it was the fear for his life or how radioactive-hot Ethan was, but his heart was beating hard enough to shake his bones out of joint.

“I guess my last day of vacation has made me bold,” Ethan added with an almost shy grin.

“I like bold,” Benji replied, and it was true.

“Well, then, I think you’ll love this.” Ethan leaned forward and Benji didn’t compute until the very last microsecond before their lips touched that Ethan was going in for a kiss—a kiss! He was being kissed by a handsome stranger in a gorgeous foreign locale! This is so Hollywood, Benji thought with the small part of his brain reserved at all times for nonsensical musings. I’m like Angelina Jolie! Brad Pitt! I’m Brangelina all in one convenient package!

Ethan was such a good kisser that Benji almost— _almost_ —forgot that there was a bullet somewhere in this place with his name on it. A firm hand that was not Ethan’s (unless there was some sort of alien-third-arm situation going on, which, not a deal-breaker) landing on his shoulder reminded Benji violently of that fact.

“Room key,” the massive bulk of a man who’d interrupted their embrace demanded.

“Kind of in the middle of something, here,” Ethan said calmly with an irritated rumple to his brow. Benji thought, with a touch of hysteria, that Ethan might ask to speak to the burly guard’s manager—that was the brand of mundane annoyance written on his face. Benji tried to copy the expression.

“What do you need ours for, get your own!” Benji shot back, purposefully dense. He very much enjoyed the rising flush on the muscle-for-hire’s face. If Ethan’s muffled laugh was anything to go by, so did he.

“I must _check_ your room key,” the stranger insisted, while several of his brethren fanned out in the background, checking behind vases and columns and even inside the piano.

“Fine,” Ethan grumbled, tugging the plastic rectangle from inside his immaculate suit jacket and handing it over.

Benji experienced a brief moment of black-out terror: he could not hand over his room key. It was for the room he’d shared with his fellow operative, which had no doubt been discovered and searched by now.

But the kingpin’s crony just grunted his assent and handed Ethan’s card back, moving on. Benji realized with a tsunami of relief that he’d been passed over, considered part of Ethan’s guileless bundle. A non-threat. Just some boys on vacay.

“Well, that was entertaining,” Ethan commented archly as the lounge emptied once more, “But I think I’d prefer some privacy.”

Benji nodded. He’d very much like to crawl into a dark quiet space and scream for a little while. Not that that was going to happen until he was back on American soil.

“Care to join me in my room?” Ethan offered, turning a soft smile on Benji that made him glad he was already sitting down and didn’t have to worry about his knees giving out.

“What? Oh! Yes, god yes,” Benji agreed as soon as he processed, “But, I’ve got a flight in, uh…” He glanced at his watch and did a double take, “many fewer hours than I’d thought. Wow. I should…go.”

“What a coincidence…” Ethan pulled a plane ticket from his jacket and gave it a merry wave, “I’m heading home later today, myself. Want to share a cab?”

Want to share my life? Benji didn’t say, because he’d mastered the art of not proposing to gorgeous people on the first date, no matter how much he wanted to. “Sure,” he said instead, quite proud of how mature he’d become. “So, where’s home for you?”

_New York, six months later_

Benji moved out of his shoebox apartment and into Ethan’s graciously appointed brownstone with slight trepidation. Things were moving rather fast, but that was good, wasn’t it? When you found the right one, and all…

He could hardly complain about the relocation. Being some Wallstreet something or other had its perks, apparently. Need to take the edge off all the odd hours and high stress, Ethan would say when Benji’s working-class background balked at a six-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne shared over dinner or diamond cufflinks as a birthday present. Ethan didn’t talk about his work in the financial markets much, or at all, really, but Benji could hardly push him on that. He’d told Ethan he’d been recently poached from a workaholic Silicon Valley job to be head of a corporate IT department here on the east coast. Of course, the corporation in question was the US government, but he couldn’t go shouting that about. After the Morocco disaster, he’d taken up the Secretary’s offer to leave the CIA for the IMF, with one of their big asks being a civilian cover story. It had been early days with Ethan when they set up his cover with a national software developer, and now that things were progressing from “fun and light” to “serious like shared retirement funds,” he was stuck in a bit of a corner.

Benji didn’t like lying. He didn’t take to it, which he knew was ridiculous considering his chosen line of work. But the fact was he preferred honesty on all fronts. That desire for honesty was, he suspected, why things felt increasingly tense between him and Ethan. Ever since he’d moved in, the static undercurrent of discomfort around them had grown.

And if that wasn’t enough, Benji had developed a terrible suspicion that Ethan was going to _propose_. The fact that that wonderful possibility gave him a terrible feeling produced in him _another_ terrible feeling that something was very, very wrong indeed.

“I just feel like something bad is going to happen,” Benji complained to Luther over their weekly chess match.

“Hrmph,” Luther replied.

“You know, like there’s a shark swimming below and we’re just splashing away like hors d’oeuvres above?”

“Then shoot the shark,” Luther concluded gruffly.

“What?” Benji startled, “That’s not…I’m speaking _metaphorically_.”

“So ’m I.”

“What metaphorical shark do you want me to shoot?” Benji asked, a little aghast.

“Whatever one you got to. Check.” Luther’s knight glared down at Benji’s king.

“If I knew what the shark _was_ then…oh, never mind, I don’t even know what the point of this metaphor was.” Benji put up a weak defense and Luther laughed openly.

“I never know what the point of anything you say is,” he announced, jolly as he checkmated Benji with ease.

Benji flopped back in the uncomfortable office chair with a sigh. “You’re so mean to me, Luther. Why are we friends?”

“We aren’t. You’re just the only idiot in this whole damn spy outfit who doesn’t fall for my rook’s lure. Well, there’s one other guy, but he’s smart enough to know not to play me.”

Benji groaned and let his head fall back, eyes squeezed shut. A timer beeped, reproving from his pocket.

“Break’s over, back to work,” he said with false cheer, pushing himself to his feet.

“Stickell, Dunn,” Brassel marched up to where they sat, already grim features creased with worry. “I need you both in the aerie, stat. Things went sideways on Hunt’s mission, I need every techie I can get my hands on to help with the weapons decryption, or none of that team’s getting out alive.”

“Yes, sir,” Benji hopped to, falling into step with Luther behind their boss. For just a moment, a shadow of something Benji had never seen before flitted across Luther’s stoic features. Doubt? Concern?

But the moment was gone, and Benji had work to do. He shooed one of the many tech underlings out of the prime seat in Brassel’s ops, pulling the keyboard up and diving in. After Morocco, Benji had encouraged his new superiors to employ his skills as far away from the field as possible—however, when lives were on the line, he wasn’t going to shy away from lending a hand in a field-heavy situation.

“Hunt, report,” Brassel shouted as soon as he retrieved his headset. Benji reached for an earpiece of his own in case he got the code first and needed to share it (and really, Luther was the only person in the room who might beat him to that punch).

He picked up the tail end of “—route compromised.” It was only two words, but Benji was struck like lightning in a lonely field. He knew that voice. But no, surely he was mistaken—

Another flash of that something on Luther’s face. No. He tried to meet his colleague’s eyes and Luther shook his head, minutely. Not now, he seemed to be saying.

Not now, Benji echoed it himself, as his mind tried to protect him from identifying the voice on the other end of the line.

He focused on the decryption algorithms in front of him. He’d developed a sixth sense for the things, he could feel that they were getting close. Seconds away from an answer. Just had to let the little electronic wizards do their thing.

Almost of their own accord, his fingers danced over to open a second command window, typing in a quick string of code, activating a basic voice modulator. Nothing fancy, it just dropped the frequency and added a light scramble. Fairly standard practice, actually, to maintain the secrecy of various agents’ identities. Benji saw his fingers begin to tremble, as if from a distance.

“I’ve got the code,” he announced to Brassel and the assembled tech squad as his screen displayed a green success notice, “Relaying now.” He flicked his mic channel into sync with Agent Hunt’s.

“392735-22#-Alpha-7,” he said without hesitation, hearing the tap of keys and labored breath on the other end of the line.

“Code accepted,” the agent sighed, and the whole room let out a relieved breath. “Disaster averted, mission accomplished,” Hunt continued, the high of escaping death singing in his voice. “Thanks to the home team, you really pulled through—whoever you are, over there, I’ll buy you a beer when I get back.”

Benji didn’t scream. He didn’t shout, he didn’t make a scene, he didn’t even let his face lose its cold frown. He just carefully removed his earpiece, cleared his computer station, and rose to his feet.

“Mr. Stickell, a word?” Benji asked, though he hoped it was clear that this was not a request. He didn’t make eye contact, he just started moving and listened for the sound of footsteps.

Luther followed him out to the corridor with an exhausted neutrality.

Benji tried to breathe, tried to order his thoughts. He knew once he opened his mouth, it would all try to burst out, every thought and feeling and question and accusation vying for attention in his bursting mind.

“How long have you known?” was the final choice for opening foray.

“Months,” Luther answered. He looked ashen underneath the professional veneer. It calmed Benji’s ire by a few degrees.

“How… _why_ did you lie? About all this, for so long? How could you—"

“I told you before, Benji, we’re not friends.” Luther seemed sad, even as he stood firm.

“But you’re _his_ friend?” Benji pressed.

Luther shook his head. “That’s between him and me. Just like what you have with him isn’t my concern.”

“Not your concern,” Benji repeated, almost mocking.

Luther’s expression hardened. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he knows about you either.”

Benji pressed a hand over his eyes. He was terrified he might start crying. “To hell with it all,” he whispered, more to himself than to Luther, “We’re just punching shadows in the dark.” Then, trying to refocus—back on mission: “Are you going to tell him about me? Or that I know about him?”

Luther lifted his hands, ponderous and tired. “Like I said, it’s none of my business. But if he asks me, directly…”

“Right. Fine.” Benji turned to leave. He could feel Luther’s hesitance, words he wanted to say. He slowed his step, but no sound came. He set his mouth in a firm line, pulled his shoulders up straight, and walked away.

Pulling up in front of the brownstone felt like stepping onto a soundstage. The theater of their life together. A failed show, empty seats.

He went straight to the basement. Ethan kept a “workshop” down there; he’d told Benji it was his personal space, away from it all. That he didn’t build much, but it was nice to tinker. Benji had thought it was cute, at the time, imagining Ethan fiddling rather clumsily with a table or a footstool that was never going to be finished. He was more than happy to let Ethan have a space of his own. Hadn’t thought twice about the simple lock Ethan kept on the door.

He picked up a bronze bust from its pedestal on his way downstairs, hefting it once, twice, before bringing it smashing down on the flimsy lock. The metal gave way with a baleful screech, but when Benji pulled on the handle it didn’t budge. Of course. A red herring.

Benji started patting down the wood paneling beside the door, searching with fingertips until he found a catch. A hunk of oak swung back on oiled hinges to reveal a keypad.

Combinations flashed through his mind—romantic ones, like the day they met or his own birthday. He didn’t dare try them, though, not sure if it would be worse to find they gained him entry or denied it. Instead, he just retrieved the now-dented bust and slammed it into the keypad. The door released as the mechanism died with an electronic gurgle. Benji grabbed the recalcitrant door and heaved it open, stepping inside.

Just within the door’s sightline, the room could pass for an ordinary workshop. A rack of screwdrivers, some four-by-fours laid across a pair of sawhorses. But stepping inside, different elements came to light.

A rack of gleaming black metal—guns of all kinds. Knives, a set of brass knuckles, sundry weapons that looked to have been collected from all over the world, now set in orderly precision with their unexpected bedfellows. Benji pawed aimlessly through a pile of climbing gear, pondered a display of strange vehicle keys. He couldn’t bring himself to look anymore, squeezing his eyes shut as he once again prayed for the tears to keep their place—if he started down that road, he might just collapse right here and sob until Ethan found him.

His eyes flashed open.

Ethan wasn’t going to find him. Not like that.

So, Ethan was a spy? Mild-mannered Clark Kent finally showing a flash of cape.

A terrible roaring wave of anger swept through Benji.

He wasn’t going to sit here and cower, he wasn’t going to wait for Ethan, he wasn’t going to beg for explanations.

Ethan had ripped everything Benji thought he knew right out from under him. It was only natural that Benji return the favor. 

_The Brownstone, early the next morning_

Ethan was beyond tired. Bad enough the mission had gone to shit and he’d cracked two ribs, his flight had been delayed and he didn’t get home until well past three AM. Benji was always adorably grumpy at that time of night—and he always insisted Ethan wake him if he arrived home late, even though he must equally hate being woken at such ungodly hours. It never failed to stir Ethan’s heart, getting to kiss that scrunched up brow, press a hand over Benji’s worn T-shirt and feel his sleep-warmed skin beneath.

It was better, coming home at night. If he came home during the day, Benji was too alert, and had too many questions. Ethan had already had to promise to stop “snowboarding” after coming home with a broken arm and a half-swollen face, even knowing he’d be taking up another “extreme sport” when the next mission rolled in.

It didn’t matter. Ethan wanted this life. Well, not the lying and the pretending he knew how to play squash and pretending he _didn’t_ know how to field-strip an AK-47 in under 15 seconds. He wanted a home. He wanted Benji.

Stepping through the door to their home, his breath left him in a rush. He leaned against the heavy slab of wood to close it, taking another deep breath to orient himself.

Something wasn’t right. It was just a flutter of intuition, maybe something in the way the air held itself so still and quiet around him. He considered calling out for Benji but nixed the idea—either he was still jumpy on adrenaline and he’d wake his partner up unnecessarily, or…well. If there was someone here who shouldn’t be, he didn’t need to warn them more than he already had.

In a practiced, fluid motion, he reached under the nearby sideboard and unearthed a snub-nosed .380, pulling the slide and hearing an empty echo. The weight of the gun was wrong. He checked the magazine. No bullets.

His stomach dropped like a stone from a passenger jet. Two quick steps forward and a silent leap up to retrieve a six-inch dagger, tucked into the crown molding. No. Just an empty leather case where the blade used to be.

He raced upstairs. Whoever had the time and intel and access to case his home so completely, they could’ve—they could’ve done something to _him_ —

Rage was a terrible driver. He skidded to a halt just inside the bedroom. The sheets were neat in that slightly-off-kilter way Benji always made them up in the morning. Not slept in.

The closet door was open a crack and Ethan barged in to find conspicuous holes where Benji’s things had been. Not all, just some, like he’d packed for a vacation. But where would he have gone? And without telling Ethan?

Backup. He needed someone to talk him down from this ledge of panic. But not just any backup, the IMF didn’t give a shit for friends or family, he needed someone he could trust.

“Luther, he’s gone, Benji’s gone,” Ethan said as soon as the ringing stopped. Luther’s sigh rattled through the phone. “There’s not exactly signs of a struggle, I’d say he just—just _left me_ but…things are missing, weapons, and I—"

“Calm down,” Luther ordered. There was a clink of glass on the other end, setting off Ethan’s instincts. Luther wasn’t one for casual drinking.

“I’m as calm as a I need to be,” Ethan said, once he’d controlled himself enough for the statement to be true.

“Right.” Another sigh. “You know, you should really spend a little less time free-climbing Mount Rushmore or whatever the hell it is you do on those missions of yours, and a little more time getting to know the agency you work for.”

Ethan kicked the bedframe once, hard, to keep from throwing his phone out the window. “Luther. What does that have to do with—”

“If you knew a little more about the IMF,” Luther steamrolled forward, “you’d know…for example…that VidaTech Industries was acquired almost a year ago to serve as a cover for the agency.”

“VidaTech? But that’s…” Ethan didn’t say ‘where Benji works’ because clearly, Luther already knew that.

It all started to add up with a terrible ringing like the clack of an abacus at work in his skull.

“Maybe you should’ve actually stepped foot in our own tech department,” Luther continued, not letting Ethan stop and just _think_ , dammit, “Met some of the new hires. You’d know Brassel snatched up a bunch of agents from the CIA, including a real tech genius who got hung out to dry on that mission in Morocco that clashed so badly with our own sting.”

“Stop. Stop talking.” Ethan was shocked at the pleading in his own voice.

Luther went quiet. The sound of liquid, of a glass refilling.

“Wait…” Ethan felt the final piece of the puzzle struggle to fit into place, “Earlier today, with the detonation threat…. was he the one on the other end of the line?”

“Hell of a codebreaker, that one,” was Luther’s reply.

“Oh, god.” The phone slipped out of Ethan’s hand and cracked on the ground. Not quite dead, it flashed red and white before going black.

_Morocco, two weeks later_

“You really can’t give a guy some space, can you?” Benji swirled his half-drunk whiskey idly, gesturing for another from the bartender. The bartender, not the same one as the last time they’d been in this hotel, because fate only went so far, poured the drink with one careful eye on the newcomer.

“It’s not my specialty, no,” Ethan agreed, hobbling forward. He’d been able to handle the guards, the automated defenses, the blazing heat, but the dogs had come out of _nowhere_. His leg probably looked pretty bad, which is why he was making a concerted effort not to look at it.

“It really didn’t take much to secure protection from the newest local crimelord,” Benji shrugged out of his suit jacket, tossing it on the stool to his right. It was fine white silk, nicer than anything he could usually afford, nicer than what he’d ever let Ethan buy for him. “And by the way, your bank accounts are not as secure as they should be. Just as this place’s defenses aren’t nearly as spy-proof as they claim. Perhaps I should have taken my vacation elsewhere. Or perhaps you should’ve taken the hint.”

Ethan dragged himself onto the barstool to Benji’s left with a sharp wince. “Oh, I got the hint.”

“Got the hint and beat the shit out of it with your bare fists, from the look of it.” Worry spun itself across Benji’s features and wound its way back out of sight just as quickly. “But I knew you’d make it.”

“Really? I didn’t.”

“Have a little faith. Or a little less modesty. I hacked your record, Ethan Hunt, loyal employee of the IMF. You’ve gone up against much worse than me.”

“It’s not a matter of worse, Benji Dunn, recent IMF hire and rising star.”

“That’s me,” Benji agreed, downing the rest of his drink and sliding the fresh one to Ethan. Ethan took it, just to have something to do with his hands. “So,” Benji drummed the bar with his fingers, casual and friendly except for whatever was happening in his eyes, “Here to use me for cover again?”

Ethan shrank back from the impulse to beg forgiveness but bumped right into accusation. “Isn’t that what you were using me for?”

A flippant shrug from Benji. “For about two minutes, yes. Once we were back home, safe and sound? Not in the slightest.”

“You think it was any different for me?” Ethan tried to catch Benji’s gaze, but he rejected the attempt.

“I don’t know, was it?”

“You should’ve given me a chance to explain. But you ran.”

“Of course, I ran!” Benji shouted. The bartender dropped the glass they were drying. Benji shot them an apologetic wave, and they said, “I think I should…get another case of…something…” before fleeing to the cellar.

The lounge was empty, probably because it was the dead of afternoon on a Tuesday. Also, because some lunatic had just run security through their paces and most people with any sense had retired elsewhere while the hullabaloo settled back down.

Benji and Ethan just sat there, both staring straight ahead.

“I mean,” Benji started, stopped, and started again, “the real bitch of it all is that I did the same damned thing to you. So. How can I be _so fucking angry_ with you?” He finally turned to look at Ethan, properly, for the first time. “Aren’t _you_ angry?”

“I should be,” Ethan shrugged. “I want to be. It would hurt less.” He turned to meet Benji’s gaze just as Benji returned his glare to boring a hole in the gleaming rainbow of bottles behind the bar. “I’m just not. Benji…it was draining _so much_ from me to lie to you. We were a shadow of what we could have been.”

“Past tense? Sounds like you’ve already given up.”

Ethan was aghast. “No. Benji,” he reached out, touching Benji for the first time as he grabbed his forearm, “I am…the furthest thing from giving up on us.”

Benji didn’t tense or pull away at the touch of Ethan’s hand. He just…looked down at it. Like an alien object of minor interest.

Ethan’s fingers trailed off of Benji’s sleeve, just brushing his skin. Benji caught his hand before it could slink off in defeat, taking it in both of his own and turning it over so he could inspect Ethan’s palm. Worn, calloused, a few scars.

“I always knew there was something beneath your surface.” Benji traced one ragged pink line accented by fresh red with reverent fingers. Ethan knew that he was breathing, he must be, but it didn’t feel like he was—it didn’t even feel like time was passing. More like it was just flowing around them.

“Turns out, you really were too good to be true. And yet, I think I like this version better. So, not good _enough_ to be true, I guess? It’s confusing.” Benji shook his head and let Ethan’s hand fall with a hollow thunk. “Nothing makes sense, even though other things make _so_ much more sense. Not just the bullshit about how you sprained your spine going super-skiing or whatever, but…my own feelings. Like, how I was absolutely terrified that you were going to propose.”

Ethan reared back like he’d been slapped. “How did you…”

“Oh fuck, you really were going to?” Benji dropped his head to smack against the bar. He misjudged the distance and conked himself pretty good but didn’t care. The pain was a welcome distraction.

“I thought…” Ethan struggled to navigate the vivid sensation of being sat down at a high stakes poker game and finding himself unable to remember any of the rules. “Would you have…”

“I didn’t know what I was going to say,” Benji replied miserably, muffled from where his face was still squished against the bar’s gleaming counter.

“That doesn’t sound like it was going to be a ‘yes,’ then.”

“I don’t think I would’ve married him. The man I thought you were.”

“What about the man I am?”

“Still getting to know him, aren’t I? Wait a bloody minute before you go dropping to one knee.”

Ethan laughed, trying not to let his relief at the return of Benji’s trademark dry humor overwhelm him. “We didn’t have a great introduction, I’ll admit. Our fake selves or our real selves.”

Benji nodded, which involved lifting his face up enough to get some altitude for the gesture. With a sigh, he dragged himself all the way upright. “It’s too bad we don’t get do-overs.”

Ethan’s mouth dipped in a thoughtful frown. “Who says?” He plucked at his ripped, dirt-stained shirt until it looked slightly less unpresentable, and then held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Ethan Hunt. I’m a covert operative for the Impossible Missions Force. You’ve got the softest smile and eyes I thought I’d get lost in the first time they landed on me.”

A tremor ran through Benji, trembling down his arm and right into Ethan’s palm as they shook hands.

“Hello, Ethan,” Benji tried to respond, having to pause and take a breath before he could continue. “My name is Benji Dunn. I’m a guy who likes wandering around cyberspace and wandered himself right into a secret government database. Guess I work there now. When I first met you, the part of my head that wasn’t focused on avoiding certain death just kept wondering ‘what’s he doing for the rest of his life?’”

“Well, I’d have to ask what you’re doing before I could answer that question. I plan on being wherever you are.”

“Oh…” Benji didn’t have the strength for anger anymore. The longest grudge he’d ever held was when he was six years old, against the neighbor boy who stole his stuffed rabbit Fluffers McGee and got peanut butter all stuck in his fur—at nineteen days, the childhood incident still edged out the current one by a significant margin. He just wasn’t built for it. And maybe that was a gift, like his mum had always said, to have such forgiveness in his heart.

His hand gravitated upwards to cup Ethan’s cheek and Ethan sagged into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“You look ragged, my love,” Benji whispered, thumb brushing along the familiar path of Ethan’s cheekbone.

Ethan huffed a laugh. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

“Has it? I’ve been enjoying exquisite room service and the talents of a very skilled masseuse, myself.”

Ethan laughed again, the sound scratchy from what felt like months of disuse. “Well, if you’re tired of dealing with all that exhausting relaxation… How do you feel about evading a phalanx of armed men and bloodthirsty hounds to try and make it back to an ancient two-seater propeller plane barely hanging onto the edge of a cliff for liftoff?”

“Sounds a like a ball,” Benji grinned, and this time he was the one to lean in and sweep Ethan into a kiss.

It felt almost like a first kiss, but with all the history of their months together—knowledge of each other’s bodies gained from experience paired with the passion, brimming below their mutual constructed surfaces, finally set free.

If it weren’t for the threat of untimely death once again hovering over their heads as they embraced, they’d have both been happy to stay there in each other’s arms forever.

“Well,” Benji murmured, pulling back and brushing a hand down Ethan’s kind of hilariously ruined shirt, “If you’re really set on the whole run-the-hounds-gambit, I’m game, but if you’d prefer…” He pulled a pair of keys from his pocket and swung them proudly around his forefinger, “There is a helicopter waiting on the roof especially for the usage of VIP guests, such as myself.”

“There’s…what?” Ethan blinked.

Benji tutted as he hopped off the barstool, swinging his jacket back onto his shoulders, “Ethan, I’ve been monitoring all your aliases and accounts since I left. I knew you were coming here practically before you did. And I figured, with the way your mission files paint you blundering in head-first all over the place, that we might need a quick ‘n clean getaway.”

Ethan stared at him, open-mouthed, before breaking into a sunrise of a smile. “Benji…you’re brilliant.”

“Yes.”

“I hope you don’t mind the fact that I’m going to tell you that every day, for...well, forever.”

Benji grabbed Ethan by the shirtfront to pull him to his feet. “I don’t mind,” he murmured, once they were eye-to-eye again, “in fact, I think I love it.”

“I love _you_ ,” Ethan grinned, stealing another kiss as Benji tried to herd him towards the rooftop helipad.

“Alright, you goof, enough of the mushy stuff,” Benji said, undercutting the statement by holding Ethan’s hand, “We have a getaway to be getting on.”

They were taking the stairs two at a time when Benji finally broke and said, loudly enough to startle a bird off of a nearby open window ledge, “I love you too. Still. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“Nothing says clear like a helicopter,” Ethan quipped back, “But…yeah.” He kissed Benji’s cheek before he could break out the ‘we’re trying to make a daring escape there’s no time for romantic shenanigans’ line again.

But Benji didn’t object, and in fact, would likely never object again. Because it turns out, not only had their past daring escapes been notably improved by romantic shenanigans, but their romantic shenanigans could’ve used a few more daring escapes.

“Can’t imagine what our wedding’s going to be like,” Benji said aloud, following his own internal train of thought.

Ethan froze rather theatrically as they threw open the door to the roof. “Does that mean...you’re saying yes?”

“You haven’t even proposed yet!” Benji objected, “but, er…well, I guess I am saying yes. But!” He waved a hand in front of Ethan’s misty eyes, “We can’t have this conversation now! Other fish to fry!”

“Yes, agreed,” Ethan agreed, coughing unconvincingly to hide an emotive sniff. He grabbed the keys from Benji and went to unlock the helicopter’s pilot-side door. He clambered inside and sat there, hands hovering over the controls.

Benji climbed into the other seat, staring at Ethan. “You… _do_ know how to fly a helicopter?”

“Uh…”

“Never mind,” Benji shook his head, reaching for the complicated seat belt, “I think a few of your secrets are better off staying kept.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t have the emotional ability to make them have a brutal house fight ala the original Mr. & Mrs. Smith movie BUT imagine if you will the [“who’s your daddy now?”](https://youtu.be/557z4qc7kJs?t=47) exchange with Benji & Ethan… here’s hoping someone stronger than I will write that!   
> And as always, comments are the flowing water that keeps this ‘ol wheel turning—if you’ve got a moment, I’d love to hear your thoughts! <3


End file.
